


shadows dancing on the floor

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, if you think you can be easily triggered don't read, please, seriously this is graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(heavily, heavily inspired by the amazing Sarahbob's story, 'Got a Secret, Can You Keep It'.)</p>
<p>All Enjolras can feel is his hands. Or, the two years where everything was Not Okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows dancing on the floor

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Got a Secret, Can You Keep It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884288) by [Sarahbob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahbob/pseuds/Sarahbob). 



> You should all read Sarahbob's story, because it is purely amazing and I couldn't stop thinking about it so I ended up going more in depth into it. So, this is the resulting pile of angst that came form two hours with no internet at my violin teacher's house while waiting through my sisters' lessons. 
> 
> Heed the warnings. TW for rape and TW for graphic descriptions of self-harm.

_i._  
The phantom touches follow you everywhere. In class, when you’re with your friends, and especially at home. There’s nowhere you can go without feeling the harsh grabs on your shoulders, the brushes against your side, a hand at the back of your neck, and you swear you can see him.

It’s hard to concentrate.

Whenever someone bumps into you in the hall, or Combeferre puts his hand on your shoulder, you flinch. Because it’s not the people you know, it’s never them, it’s only _him_. God, you can’t even say his name without the shame filling up your insides, the weight too much for you to take. You told everyone how fucking fantastic he was, and now you’re just a fool. A fool who let his uncle take him in the front hallway of his own home on his fourteenth birthday.

In some buried part of you that doesn’t feel like its drowning, you know Combeferre notices. They all do, because your grades are slipping and you’re not sleeping and you’re avoiding them and _goddammit why can’t you do a damn thing right_. You can’t tell them, you can’t you can’t you can’t you can’t. And not just because you _cannot_ talk about it (you can’t even thinking about it without hyperventilating), but because they won’t believe you. Not after you idolized him and put him up on a pedestal that you’re not tall enough to knock him off of.

_ii._  
“You’re not okay.” Combeferre’s voice isn’t angry, it isn’t harsh, but it’s filled with something dark that worms its way through the shame and _him_ until it reaches your core. The panicking part (that’s set off by even a little brush of someone’s skin and is never not there) is set off in full force, and it’s all you can do to keep breathing as you prepare to hate yourself more. Because you already know what you’re going to do.

“I’m fine. Leave me the fuck alone,” you reply, allowing anger to seep into your voice (maybe that will explain your shaking hands).

“No. Dammit, I’ve seen your marks lately and you’re losing weight and I know you’re not sleeping,” he says in a rush, running a hand through his hair. Now there’s rising anger in his voice, and you know it’s going to be too easy. _Push him away_ , the panic screams, and you prepare to sever yourself completely.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Now your voice is mechanic, emotionless, and you pull away when he goes to grab your arm. (No one touches you, no one can touch you, not after _he_ did.)

“Spare me,” Combeferre spits, now pacing back and forth. Good, he’s getting into his stride. All it will take is a few choice words and he’ll avoid you for months. So you say exactly what he doesn’t want to hear, that he needs to take his head out of his ass and leave you alone, and then there’s screaming.

There’s so much screaming and you’re terrified because the last time someone yelled at you this much it ended with you bleeding and completely and utterly broken on the floor. But then it’s over and he’s storming away and you’re finally alone.

_iii._  
It’s not unusual, for you, to wake up in a panic. It’s part of the reason why you don’t sleep most nights, because sleep means dreams means nightmares means you relive it all again. You wake up, lungs gasping and the oxygen not making its way past your lips, convinced that he’s here, he’s in your bed and it’s happening again.

_No. No no no no nononononononononononono_

Sometimes, you scream, and then your father is rushing into the room, like he always does. It’s a small miracle that he’s noticed, because he’s never gave half of a shit before. But that means you’re really not doing a good job of hiding it, and before you can do anything his arms are wrapping around you and it feels like the touch is burning you and you just want him to stop. But he doesn’t let go, not until you’re breathing has evened out and you slump in exhaustion.

He doesn’t care that much, though, because then he’s gone without saying a word. Sure, whenever he’s actually home he’ll tiptoe around you and watch you funnily but he won’t say anything. Because he doesn’t want to admit how much of a fuckup his only son is, doesn’t want to believe that the panic attacks mean anything.

What he doesn’t know is that he can’t go through a day at school without passing out on the floor of the bathroom after someone (a teacher, a past friend, _Combeferre_ ) accidently touches him and he can’t control it. The panic will take over and convince him there’s not enough oxygen.

You know that Combeferre notices, too, but you haven’t talked. He’s still torn up about your fight, and it’s fine. Not talking to him means that no one’s pressing him to talk about what he can’t even think about, and no one else confronts you. You don’t talk to any of your friends anymore, and you don’t remember the last time you got above a C on a test.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

_iv._  
 **Pain can help to gain control. It has even been proven to bring people down from hysteria, to keep them from panicking in terrible situations.**

Immediately, your breath hitches in your chest. Everything could be over, if what Google says is true; you could forget everything your uncle did, you could even end the panic attacks. But there’s a voice, a voice that sounds weirdly like Combeferre, saying that what you’re thinking of doing is crazy and dangerous and _it won’t help you. it can’t help you._

Silently, you meander into the kitchen, then the bathroom. By the time you’re sitting on the edge of the shower, your breaths are becoming shorter and shorter and you keep staring at the small knife in your hand. That’s when your vision blurs, and you know it’s now or never. You can end the panic attack; right here, right now.

When the knife presses into the soft skin of your left forearm, you don’t gasp in pain. Because there is a sudden burst of clarity. The cut is shallow, so you make another. Your breathing slows down.

Another cut, directly above the second. You’re almost calm now.

Blood is dripping down your arm, and that’s when there’s a bad taste in your mouth and your stomach clenches in guilt. You shouldn’t be doing this.

Within a week, you’ve made up with Combeferre.

(You cut three times more.)

In a month, your grades are the same as they were before the incident.

(Your arm is a mess of cuts and scars.)

You stop waking up screaming.

(You go to bed with blood seeping through bandages and head dizzy.)

_v._  
The problem, you realize, is that the pain is addictive. You won’t call it cutting or self-harm (those words leave your throat tight and your stomach twisting in nervous worry), but all you know is that you can’t stop. When you tried it, you didn’t mean to do it again, but _it helped_.

But then it stops helping. The panic attacks are back and you cut and you cut deeper and deeper but nothing helps. You’re back to not sleeping, and your grades drop again. The only difference this time is that it’s the start of a new school year, and Combeferre isn’t there, he’s miles away at university. Part of you thinks that it’s good, because you don’t know if you can hide it from him anymore. All you ever wear is long sleeves, something your father never notices, and you pass out because you cut too deep sometimes and the bleeding won’t stop.

It’s been a year now, exactly, since you first took a blade to your arm. In that time, you’ve gone from hurting yourself once a week to once every few days to every day to twice a day. You don’t want to anymore, because now all it is something worse on top of the insomnia and nightmares and panic attacks and inability to be touched, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. So you can’t tell Combeferre.

Not that you two talk much anymore, anyway. Sometimes, you text, but it’s hard when he’s got classes and new friends and you have busy schedule of hating yourself.

You’re alone, and that’s okay.

You’re fine.

Right?

_vi._  
It ends exactly two years after it all began—on your birthday. As another surprise, your father announces that your uncle has flown in, and he’s going to the airport to pick him up.

_(hands are grabbing you, pushing you down to the floor, and there’s something in your mouth before your first scream leaves your mouth. He’s back and it’s going to happen again and no._

_no no no no_

_nonononononononononononononono)_

In a blind panic, you run out the door, ignoring the March rain. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get out because you cannot be near that man again. He’ll do the same thing and you can’t handle that.

Eventually, you’re on a train and then you’re in Paris, at Combeferre’s apartment. You’re not breathing because this is one panic attack that’s not going to end and you hear your name and see his scared face as he practically carries you into the small apartment. For some reason, his hands guiding you don’t cause you to start in fear (because hands that aren’t his are still grabbing you)… they’re soft and gentle and after a few minutes of trying to get you to breathe he does pick you up, before placing you on his bed.

You’re too tired to fight him, and you know you’re going to pass out soon, because there’s not enough oxygen and you’re cold and wet and you don’t care that he’s going to find out. He has warm clothes ready and when he gently peels your soaked plaid shirt off, he sees your arm that you couldn’t be assed to bandage yesterday.

Immediately, Combeferre stands up, his eyes angry. He yells something at you, hands fisting in his hair, and he keeps yelling, but his words aren’t making sense.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because that’s the only thing that you can think to say in between wheezing breaths. In an instant, he’s stopped yelling, instead crying.

You’ve been friends since he was five and you were three, and you’ve never seen him cry like this. It’s enough to force your breathing to even out, because the sounds coming out of your best friend’s mouth are wretched. They’re hurt and scared, and his arms are wrapping around you as if you’re the only thing keeping him grounded and you hold on just as tightly. He’s wondering why he didn’t notice, how he can call himself your friend when he didn’t ever even guess that you were doing this to yourself.

Combeferre cries for a long time. You cry, too, the first time since the first few weeks after the incident, and when it’s finally over, he turns to you.

He deserves an explanation.

You tell him everything.

_vii._  
Between shaky breaths and the razor hovering above your wrist, you hear Combeferre call your name. The past few weeks, quite frankly, have been awful; after you spilled your guts to your best friend, he’d snapped into the role of older brother again. He’d forced you to get yourself checked for STD’s, went back home with you before all but forcing your father to let you live with him, and he’d watched you _constantly_. You don’t know where any of your razors are, he keeps the kitchen knives locked up, and when you need to shave he’s there watching you. It’s almost stifling, and you hate him for it most of the time, but he’s also always there when your hands shake or the phantom touches are there and you just need to cut.

It’s taken a long time for him to trust you to be in the apartment alone after school, and after a few weeks, you buy a new razor, hiding it under your pillow. You’ve managed to hide these cuts, as they’re on your thigh, but you’re about to be cut red-handed.

You can’t stop. Instead, you speed up, praying to whatever’s up there that Combeferre just leaves him alone. There’s no lock on the bathroom door, and all it takes is a few seconds of pounding footsteps before the door slams open and there are tight arms around you. You struggle wildly, still clutching the blade in your hand tightly, but he easily wrestles it out of your hands, and it’s left on the bathroom floor as he hauls you back to the living room. Combeferre’s arms are still tight around you, too tight to wiggle out of, as he sits down on the couch, dragging you with him.

Then he starts talking to you. He’s not angry, like you expect, and he whispers calming things into your ear until all of the fight is gone and you collapse against your best friend, shivering a little in just your tee shirt and boxers.

Instantly, the arms around you slacken and he lets you bury your head into his chest and cry. Now, he’s gently holding you close, and it’s comforting.

For the first time, you don’t feel _his_ hands.


End file.
